


Don't Even Ask About Coulson

by Not_You



Series: The Zen And Art Of Getting Naked To Music [4]
Category: Namor the Sub-Mariner (Comics), The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Blow Jobs, Burlesque, Business, Car Sex, Clothed Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Donuts, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Matchmaking, Memories, Mutual Pining, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Praise Kink, Show Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title is literally what I said when a friend inquired if <i>all</i> the boys were strippers in this universe.</p><p>Nick gets sick of the mutual pining and gets Clint to be his and Phil's roadie for a burlesque event in another town, trusting nature to take its course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Whenever anyone asks Phil how he ended up in the business he blames Nick, but of course it's not that simple. Packed out of the military at the same time for being possessed of The Gay (and not with each other, hilariously enough) it had been Nick's idea to dance, but he hadn't actually leaned on Phil about it. He could have kept being the oldest pizza delivery boy in the world, and Nick wouldn't have said a thing and made up their budget shortfalls from his own massive amounts of tips. Phil used to be a lot more brash and competitive, and it's really that part of him that drove him onstage.

Working together had come naturally to them after surviving so much else together, and they had kept each other in top form for years. At least twice a year they would talk about quitting and then not do it, because the money was good, and they had a sense of craft. Back then their hole in the wall employer had been pretty much the only place of its kind in the state, if not on the entire coast, so they could ignore fashion and do whatever they wanted. Nick was dancing to hip-hop mix tapes long before it was cool, and Phil could put a little burlesque into things.

Old and scarred as they had been (even then, what now feels like a lifetime ago,) rather than change their acts or make way for fresh faces, they had gone into business for themselves as that long-ago club had enlarged and expanded and filled itself with white twinks with bleached hair and bleached assholes. Not being all that into drugs, surgery, or shopping binges, they had actually saved a lot of start-up capital. It had seemed almost like hubris at the time, but after at least twenty-five separate arguments with management about music (Phil counted,) the final straw had been Nick's hair. At the end of the day, SHIELD was born so they could have whatever music they wanted and Nick could grow his formidable Afro. No matter how well he works the bald, Phil is probably always going to miss his fabulous hair.

Getting SHIELD off the ground wasn't the easiest thing Phil has ever done, but not the hardest, either. For one thing, a certain amount of people will always take actual personality when they can get it. For another, a Stark with severe daddy issues had wandered into their clutches and given them a lot of free advice. Too much of it, really, but he had generally been right. Leaving the place to him had really been the only choice. They had grown up together, and Tony had been the only prospect who really understood the magic of the place, and the simultaneously homelike and hands-off approach that makes it work. Phil has no idea who the kid will give it to when he gets sick of it, but for now it's in good hands.

Like some kind of anxious parent, Phil still drops by. He favors the slow times, when he can bring donuts and help people un-crick their necks and check on any of his proteges. When he finds people who would be a good fit, he sends them along to Tony and tells them to say so. It usually works out.

Today it's so slow that Clint is doing pole tricks. Fully-clothed, of course. More's the pity. He'd be a hell of a draw. Every pathetic old pervert from here to Florida would crawl over broken glass to drool over that muscular, boyish grace. Phil would know, because he's one of them no matter how hard he tries.

Clint whistles 'Entrance of the Gladiators' as he struggles to walk a circle in the air. He makes it most of the way, and then his legs crumple and he swears and swings down to land on the stage as lightly as a cat, despite his heavy boots. "Fuck you, pole! You win this round!" he shakes his fist theatrically and laughs. He looks around and catches sight of Phil, vaulting off the stage to gallop up to him. "Hey, Phil! And donuts. It's like you like us or something."

"That could be because I do. And I hear there's a new hire."

"And you're worried because he didn't go through the Coulson Approval Process?"

Phil smiles, opening the box so Clint can get a maple bar before they all disappear. "Pretty much, yes."


	2. Chapter 2

There are times Clint feels like a walking stereotype. Abusive father, childhood neglect, time in both systems, foster and prison, and a gigantic life-altering fucking Thing for older men. He's not exactly Looking For Daddy (and not exactly not, so his eternal dismay) but he likes a guy with experience. A guy who can go slow and realizes that gentle isn't just for girls. So of course he's been hung up on Phil since practically the first time he ever saw him. He can only hope that the donuts provide some kind of camouflage. And maple bars are fucking amazing. He munches on his current one as Phil interrogates Roman. 

It really is an interrogation, but Phil is good at it. He knows you get more by being nice, and even if Roman refuses to eat anything with white sugar or flour, he's willing to sit with Phil as he nibbles on his take-out sashimi and critically studies his own long legs. He shaves, and isn't even embarrassed about it.

"Oh, nice ink," Phil says, catching sight of the little wings tattooed on Roman's ankles. Like a lot of other things about him, they don't come off nearly as fey as they should.

"Thank you," he says, ever gracious. Another morsel of perfect fish disappears, and Clint can't decide if this guy is more like a cat or a small shark. "I had them done very young. I think it would be illegal here?"

"It's generally eighteen for tattoos in the U.S., yeah," Phil says, the corner of his mouth curling up in a wry smile. "Not that all of us go by that."

And he keeps fucking doing that. Hinting at some kind of wild past that just makes him more adorable. Clint swallows his last bite as Roman starts telling Phil about growing up in various places around the Mediterranean. He has barely said two words to anyone else, but Phil is that kind of listener. Clint could hang around here forever, but he gets called out front. There are now customers to bounce. Two pensioners, sure, but it's the principle of the thing. He and Natasha both have split shifts today, because they can be trusted to stop goofing off and work for the sporadic early customers, and can also be trusted to make sure the place closes properly. Sometimes being responsible blows, but Natasha does sneak him a real drink. He's supposed to wait to be off-duty, but one screwdriver isn't gonna fuck him up.

It turns out the pensioners do need him, at least. Not to throw them out for raising too much hell, but to retrieve a dropped cane. They're a pair of frail old birds, and it's to Roman's credit that he goes all-out for them when his shift starts instead of just strutting lazily and looking down at them with pity and contempt, which Clint has to admit he was kind of expecting.

The one good thing about a split shift is escaping the club during the actual evening. He and Natasha can ditch their SHIELD t-shirts and run in the park at the nicest time of day, even if they do have to come back to a fucking sea of drunks at eleven pm.

"So," Natasha says, as they crest the biggest of the place's three hills, because she's a terrible person and knows damn well that Clint can run or talk at this stage, not both, "when are you gonna do something about Phil?"

"On the thirteenth of kiss my ass," Clint wheezes, struggling up the last six feet or so.

"You know, I'm sure Phil actually would," she says, and Clint nearly swallows his tongue. "We totally have a pool on you guys," she says, pulling ahead as he uses the flatter section to catch his breath before joining her on the downward slope.

"You're all assholes," he tells her, "complete assholes."

"Whatever, just proposition him and make me some money."

Things are always brutally simple with Natasha, and Clint kind of envies her. Besides, even if he did have the guts to say anything to Phil, he'd probably have to ask Nick for his hand or something, and that doesn't bear thinking about. Natasha kicks his ass the rest of the way around the park, and they end up at her house for showers and yet another viewing of 'The Princess Bride' because they like it and have nothing to prove.


	3. Chapter 3

Nick doesn't visit SHIELD as often as Phil, but he still cares, and always wants a report on new hires. Apparently this one is a bit of a princess, but shouldn't be any real trouble. They're sitting in the sunny kitchen, having Proper Fucking Teatimes, which Nick insists upon at least twice a week.

"He's really very beautiful," Phil says, stirring his tea. "Classical, you know? He swims and has naturally perfect eyebrows and lovely golden skin."

"Mm. Sequined thongs, huh?" He tips a little more sugar into his own cup, and offers it to Phil, who declines with a gesture.

"He makes them himself, and he's got a great eye for color."

Nick smiles. "And how's the rest of the family?"

"Well, I was there early, but Clint and Natasha seem to be doing well."

"I don't suppose you've done anything about that boy yet."

"Nick..."

"You know they have a pool going on you two, right?"

"And where's your money?"

"On the two of you working it out eventually. You're dumb sometimes, but never _that_ dumb."

"Thanks, baby."

"You're welcome, dollface." 

They spit the endearments out like insults, sneering theatrically at each other before snickering and finishing their coffee. Being even semi-retired is still strange, but Nick likes days like this one. Just him and Phil and a lot of comfortable silence because they know each other so well. They putter around like the old men they are, tending window-boxes and doing the crossword puzzle. Nick plays the entirety of 'Homebrew' and Phil doesn't complain even though the album has been a constant in Nick's rotation since it came out over twenty years ago.

"You know I really don't mind, right?" Nick asks as Phil does a few steps to 'Trout.' "I haven't gotten possessive in my old age."

"Good." Phil blushes, apparently registering just how decided he sounds, and Nick laughs.

"Sweep the kid off his feet. You know you want to."

"Nick, have I ever known how to do that? Dance with me."

Nick obliges. While Phil's career had been one long struggle against stage fright, he does actually like to dance. And no matter what anybody says about guys their age, both of them can still move. They dance until they're tired, and then take an afternoon nap like the geriatrics they are. Nick's next consulting gig isn't until next week, so when they find themselves at loose ends in the evening, it doesn't take much convincing to get Phil back to SHIELD. Nick hasn't been in a while, and decrees it a date so Phil will put on one of his sharp suits. He does what he can for his friends.

Clint is on tonight, of course. Nick keeps up with the schedule. It might be too busy to study the kid, but it's a weeknight, he'll probably have a moment or two. And he might make a few more, if he's half as into Phil as Nick suspects. As it is, they can suck down severely discounted booze and watch Peter try to kill himself on the pole again. The boy must be part spider monkey. Sitting at the rail and gazing up at him like he's the Second Coming is a husky kid with a nearly-shaved head who looks more than a little out of place here.

"Is it my imagination," Nick says, "or does that meathead on the rail actually know him?"

Phil smiles. "Goes by Flash, apparently. He's been almost as good as Peggy."

Few dancers are lucky enough to date someone as supportive as Peggy. It probably has something to do with Steve actually being straight, but still, the comparison is high praise. Nick takes another look at the meathead, tucking details away for future reference. Kind of a cute kid, really. Not that that will save him if he turns out to be an asshole. Nick takes the welfare of all SHIELD employees very seriously. And that includes Clint. Nick waves him over when he catches sight of him, and the kid grins, shooting a shy little glance at Phil that makes Nick want to just lock them in the broom closet together until nature takes its fucking course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Homebrew' is Neneh Cherry's second studio album, and comes highly recommended.


	4. Chapter 4

Nick is a complete bastard, and Phil is going to tell him so when they get home. For now, he's teasing Clint about his expertise on the pole, because it's after close and Clint has time to play around. Natasha has to actually clean her bar. She some times bitches about stereotypical women's work and longer hours, but she doesn't really mean it. Even on a bad night she earns at least a dollar more per hour. She can't bathe in her money they way she could at almost any straight bar, but her wiles work on bi guys, anyone even a little queeny appreciates her fabulousness, and everyone appreciates quick and competent service.

Clint slides down the pole to stand on the stage again, and grins. "It's good to cultivate job skills, you know?"

Phil peels his tongue off the roof of his mouth and says something friendly and normal, and then Natasha comes over to collect her roommate. She didn't come to SHIELD at Coulson's urging but at Clint's, and has so far proven a dependable member of the family. She's usually more formal than the SHIELD average, but tonight he stops Phil on the way out and tells him that he has her blessing. Being completely sure of her meaning is convenient, pretty embarrassing, and Phil just thanks her and flees.

At home Phil snarls at Nick about what a bastard he is, and slowly allows himself to be coaxed into a hug. Despite all appearances, Nick is very good at both of these things. "Phil," he says, "I just want you to be happy, and I think not at least trying to have something with Clint is going to eat you up years from now. And of course I'll still be here, and I'll have to listen to you bitch about it and worry about you and let's just not, okay?"

Phil laughs, muffled in Nick's shoulder. "Okay."

"Now that I've got you all amenable and have your arms restrained, I guess I can tell you that I booked us for Big Daddy's Burlesque."

"...I hate you so much, Nick."

"I know, baby. I know."

The Burlesque is an annual event for male performers over the age of forty, and Phil has been dodging it for years now. He just does not have faith in himself as a male Tempest Storm, and he tells Nick so for what must be the twentieth time. Nick just rolls his eyes and says that they have a lot of old routines they can dust off and that no way will they be the oldest or ugliest act there.

"Come on, we can do Ebony and Ivory," he adds, and Phil groans.

"We are _not_ doing Ebony and Ivory." The routine is set to the song of the same name, featuring Nick and Phil's spirited efforts to murder each other, and was conceived when they were a pair of angry little snots. " _Maybe_ Murder Incorporated. Maybe."

An hour into bickering about routines, Phil realizes that he has agreed to do this, and curses Nick all over again. He just smirks, and Phil curses him some more when he realizes that it's all part of some evil plan. "Just what the fuck are you up to?"

"I was just going to see if Clint could be our roadie, that's all."

"...I fucking hate you. Fuck."

In the end they decide on Feeling Good, because it's slow and classic. They only got to do it for one SHIELD theme night, and they have to remember all the moves and modify them for their current decrepitude. It takes a while and they're aching by the time they've managed one good run-through, but Phil does feel significantly less pathetic. Besides, who doesn't love Nina Simone?

They're three weeks out, and so have plenty of time to rehearse and pull costume elements together. Roman settles in nicely at SHIELD, even if he's kind of a drama queen, and Peter and Flash are getting along, so Phil feels better about being out of reach for a weekend. Maybe he really does fret about the boys of SHIELD too much. He poses this question to Clint, who just laughs and says that it's part of his charm.

Clint turns out to attend the Burlesque every year. He's perfectly willing to drive them there and to help them set up, and Phil does not think about Clint watching the routine because if he thinks about Clint watching the routine, he's going to have a goddamn heart attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All songs mentioned:
> 
> Ebony and Ivory: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LajppsE2_LY
> 
> Murder Incorporated: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtSdG3PafrI
> 
> Feeling Good: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5Y11hwjMNs


	5. Chapter 5

Clint wonders how the fuck his life has come to this, driving Phil and Nick up to Big Daddy's. It's like some kind of surreal wet nightmare, and his hands are sweating on the wheel. It's an old hatchback because he and Natasha needed it to move their stuff into their current apartment, and they haven't gotten rid of the clunky bastard because it's good for carting Clint's archery gear to range and to the competitions he sometimes finds time to attend. 

Hell, that had been bad enough, Phil being all genuinely interested in the stuff when he had caught sight of it, but now they're here. Nick is lounging in the back seat with a bandana over his face and Phil is sitting beside Clint, sipping some kind of imported lemonade-thing and humming along to the radio. He's scrubbier than Clint has ever seen him, planning to change out of his threadbare undershirt and sweatpants when they arrive. It's almost enough to make Clint hope they never get there.

Phil smiles and sets his drink down, stretching. "Thanks again for driving us, Clint."

"No problem," Clint says, and that's pretty much true. "I was going anyway." He never misses it, but wild horses couldn't drag that admission out of him in present company. He really hopes he can keep his tongue in his mouth during the actual performance.

"Think Nick will wake up when we get there?"

Clint shrugs, watching for their next exit. "I hear that happens with babies." Phil laughs, and Clint wills himself not to blush or do anything dumb. "We're getting close, though." 

Big Daddy's has changed venues a few times, but for the last two years has taken advantage of the big stage at an otherwise unremarkable gay bar. The place has negative personality, but that's fine. The soulless and plastic atmosphere sets the performers off to great advantage, as far as Clint is concerned. They look even more real than they would already, greying body hair, deep laugh lines, scars and tattoos and the occasional prosthetic limb contrasting with all the smooth, shiny surfaces. Even before working for SHIELD, Clint was bored with pretty. He likes a man with character, with his history written across his body. He keeps his eyes on the road, because trying to decipher the shape of the tattoo he can glimpse through Phil's shirt will get them all killed.

Their destination is near the city limits, and he swings off the freeway and past the sign announcing that they've crossed into Springfield. There are a couple of obnoxious little one-way streets involved, but Clint has learned how to deal with them. Soon he catches sight of the boxy building, and within a few minutes he's pulling up to the ugliest of all four sides.

"Nick, we're here," Phil says, prodding his friend until he snorts and sits up, wiping his face with the bandana and tucking it away. There's something really cute about the way he holds his eye-patch a little away from his face while he does it, and Clint watches out of the side of his eye so he won't give himself away and ruin it. Phil finishes his drink and adds the can to their bag of trash. "All right, boys. Let's go."

Nick grumbles and bitches, but helps Clint carry the heavy prop trunk while Phil follows with the suitcase containing their costumes and makeup. There's a room set aside for performers, and Nick takes the suitcase and vanishes into it, leaving Clint and Phil with the trunk. "Leaving us with the bag, the bastard," Clint says, and Phil laughs.

"Well, I'm the one in the cage. If I set it up I have only myself to blame if it falls over."

Clint swallows and says something, not really sure what because most of his brain is currently devoted to the image of Phil in a cage. He takes most of the weight as they haul the trunk backstage, and helps Phil set up the most realistic collapsible cage he has ever seen.

"Wow," he says, patting the bars. It's shaped like the traditional bird cage. "You gonna be wearing feathers?"

Phil laughs. "Thanks for your help, and no. You'll see." With that promise hanging in the air like a threat, he goes off to join Nick. Clint takes a deep, steadying breath, and goes to in search of strong drink.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil promises himself that he will not panic. That he will just do the fucking routine to the best of his ability and then be able to get drunk if it was awful. He'll be fine. That becomes his mantra as he washes his face and puts on his boxer-briefs. They're full coverage in deference to his age and gravity, but tight and subtly silver because this is burlesque. Everyone is sharing a bathroom to change and to use the sink, but Phil and Nick can do their minimal makeup in the main room. Since they're not in drag, he and Nick don't need much. Just some foundation to keep from looking washed out and some eyeliner to prove they have eyes. They pass a compact back and forth to do touch-ups, and Nick helps Phil put on his various chains.

As it always was in his youth, waiting to go on is the worst part. Phil nurses a drink and tries not to pace. Too much movement is a bad idea when one is wearing a bunch of heavy chains that must remain just so. Nick is always the calm one at times like this, and now he actually yawns, adjusting one of his glittering green leaves. He's not what most people think of when they picture any kind of green man or forest spirit, and that's part of why the routine is what it is. The delicate leaves pop against his warm brown skin, and his scars and a bit of creatively-applied eyeliner suggest the whorls of tree bark. In their youth they really went all-out and put moss on him and everything, but they had had more energy and emotional commitment. It still looks pretty good, and Phil feels the old tremulous elation when they move into the wings. 

The MC is spotlit, introducing them as two shadows carry Phil's cage onstage in the dark. One of the shadows might be Clint, especially because they put the cage in just the right spot, with the door pointed the right way. Phil hasn't always had the same luck. He takes a deep breath and creeps across the stage in the closest thing to silence he can manage, and kneels on the floor of the cage, arms crossed and head bowed, chains neatly arranged.

The recording they use opens a cappella, and Nick comes out of the wings, dancing slowly in his green spotlight while Phil watches through his eyelashes. The green would make Phil look bilious, but Nick glows under it, leaves shimmering. The other lights come up when the instruments kick in, and Phil raises his head while Nick stands poised in burlesque surprise, fascinated by this strange, confined being he has discovered. He spends the next verse performing for Phil, watching the prisoner watch him. He looks so good that it's easy to fake desperate longing. He clutches at the bars and even whines a little, not that anyone in the audience will hear it.

At the chorus Nick relents and lets him out, opening the cage door and guiding Phil through it. He makes himself clumsy here, stiff with a long imprisonment and full of wonder, stretching out each limb in turn as Nick tenderly caresses him and removes the chains, letting each one crash to the stage. For a moment after the last one is gone, Nick just cradles Phil, who lets his body go lax and sleepy in Nick's arms for a moment before gaining strength and coming into his own, finally matching Nick's assured and sinuous sway. They move together in triumph, closer and more intense as the lyrics dissolve into scatting, the force of Nina Simone's voice unconstrained by words until Nick seizes Phil and dips him, his head nearly brushing the stage. When he comes up, he brings both of Nick's hands to his mouth to kiss them, and then they break apart, exiting to opposite sides as the music fades.

Phil only takes one glance into the audience on his way offstage, but in that glance he sees the look on Clint's face. He carries that expression with him, warmed all over by the stunned and awestruck lust in it. He meets Nick back in the improvised communal dressing room, and mirrors his triumphant grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The one, the only:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LR1bWhdoIXM


	7. Chapter 7

Clint knows he's flushed. He can feel the warmth in the tips of his ears, for fuck's sake. He's also hard, but he can put his jacket over his lap and try to keep breathing. After the applause dies down he knocks back his neglected drink and tries to will himself soft.

"Jesus fuck," he mutters, and someone beside him laughs. He glances over and smiles. "Oh, hey." It's one of SHIELD's small and sporadic cast of regulars. This guy is clearly one of those who can only pull together the cash to waste at their fine establishment every once in a while, but Clint remembers him, and only some of it is the arm. Now he shakes left-handed and re-introduces himself as Curt. Clint returns the favor, since he never wears his name tag.

"A fine performance," he says, and it doesn't sound snotty because he actually talks like that.

"Hell yes," Clint says. "This kinda shit is why I never miss." Big Daddy's tends to start and end fairly early, so all the performers can get back into normal clothes and get wasted. There's one solo number left and then the ending group, and Clint doesn't see how either could top Phil and Nick. Curt agrees, and they make their way to the bar together for another drink. Clint is only a little fucked up. With this one he should be able to leave by the time Phil and Nick want to. Clint buys for Curt, over his mild and well-bred objections. He's such a novelty in a club environment, faded and professorish and kind of adorable.

Clint clicks his glass to Curt's, and they both take their first sip. "I'm kind of surprised to see you here," he says.

"Oh?"

"You just like Rock so much. Didn't figure this for your kind of thing. Not that I'm calling you a chickenhawk," he adds, and Curt smiles, wry and a little pained.

"No. I do like," he takes a breath, like he needs strength for the admission, "young men, but I have varying tastes." He drains half of his drink. "Besides, it's good for my self-esteem to see men of similar years and mileage to myself trying to be sexy and succeeding."

Clint chuckles. "You're not hard to look at, you know." He really isn't, and the shy look he gives Clint in response to that half-assed compliment makes him fucking adorable, but there's only one ridiculously cute older man in Clint's heart right now. "I gotta go make sure that cage gets back in its box all right, but I hope we see you at SHIELD again soon."

His smile at that is so sad it makes Clint wish he hadn't said it. "Oh, you will, Clint. You will."

Headed backstage, Clint is pretty sure Curt is hung up on Peter, and feels a pang of ardent sympathy because the kid is probably half his age at best, and newly-involved with someone about eight times more appropriate. The cage is intricate enough to make him stop worrying about Curt for the moment, though, and he's just working out how to fit the last pieces into the box when Phil walks up. He's in jeans now, and a big grey sweatshirt that makes him look kind of mousy and extremely huggable.

"Got it?"

"I think so." His eyes are smoky with smudged eyeliner, and Clint wants to kiss him so badly that it kind of hurts. He turns back to the trunk, and manages to finally Tetris everything into place and shut the lid.

"Hey, Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Take a walk with me?"

Both of them have been stamped on the hand, so they can wander out to the deserted parking lot at will, where the orange sodium lights are just flickering on. There's a light breeze, carrying the smell of cut grass and the flowers in the median of the road.

"Killer number," Clint says, to break the silence.

"You think?" There's something arch in Phil's tone, and Clint turns to look at him.

"Yeah. I do."

Phil beams at him, reaching to touch his face but waiting to be allowed. Clint shivers, leaning into the touch and putting his hand over Phil's, gazing into his eyes. He means to say something flippant, possibly even 'kiss me, you fool' but nothing comes out. Phil leans in and kisses him, slow and soft.


	8. Chapter 8

It has been a long time since Phil last sat in a parked car and did his best to kiss someone senseless. It's like the good parts of being a teenager, and his heart pounds as Clint crawls into his lap. He's trembling and eager and Phil starts to rub his back and breathe with him, helping him slow down a little.

"Oh..." it's high pitched and makes him sound sort of lost, and Phil hugs him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head

"Ssshh. There you go." Clint whimpers and hides his face in Phil's shoulder. "Good boy." 

He usually waits to say that, even if it's almost inevitable, but it slips out this time. It makes Clint shudder all over, but he doesn't try to pull away. If anything he presses closer, straddling Phil's lap and clinging with his knees as well as his arms. 

"You like that?" Phil asks, and Clint nods, whining quietly in his throat. He's hard against Phil's belly, and grinds forward and moans when Phil grips his ass and gives it a long, loving squeeze the way he has been wanting to for what feels like years. "Mmm, you do like that," Phil murmurs, pushing Clint's shirt up to feel the smooth columns of muscle in his back before pulling it off entirely. Clint is reluctant to sit back enough to get the shirt off, and immediately goes back to where he was. 

"God," Phil breathes, fingertips sliding up Clint's spine and making him shiver. "So beautiful." He kisses the exposed side of Clint's neck, making him flinch and whine, and then bites. Clint shudders all over and melts in his arms, mumbling desperately that he needs to come, that he wants Phil too much and that it's starting to hurt. He looks up with dilated eyes, his face flushed with arousal and embarrassment, and Phil smiles. 

"You're really cute, you know that? Here," he opens Clint's fly and pushes his boxers down, feeling him all soft and warm in his hand. "There, baby. Better?"

"Y-yes... oh, fuck!" He thrusts into Phil's grip, panting.

"That's right," Phil coos, slicking Clint with his own precome. "Come on, I want to see."

"Y-yessir!" He's so earnest about it that Phil has to kiss him again, gripping tighter and stroking faster until Clint breaks away to breathe. His eyes flutter shut and his mouth hangs open as he bucks into Phil's hand, coming in a vast, silent wave and getting it on Phil's belly where his shirt has ridden up. Before Phil can say or do anything about that, Clint is on his knees, breathing still ragged as he licks Phil clean. Phil was going to just deal with his blue balls until a better time, but now Clint is looking up at him and saying, "Please, daddy," with those perfect, kiss-bruised lips. He swears that he's clean and seems on the edge of begging, so Phil just trusts him and pushes into his mouth.

Phil has never been the type to pull hair uninvited or to shove people down (unless they like that sort of thing) but he likes to hold on the way he's doing now, hands cupping the back of Clint's head and just riding the motion as he fucks his mouth on Phil's cock. "Such a good boy," Phil gasps, stroking Clint's hair, so short and so thick that it feels like fur. "Fuck, yesss..." He wants to keep praising Clint, but it's hard when Clint is swallowing him whole, moaning softly and sometimes gagging but never backing off more than absolutely necessary. 

"God, your pretty mouth," he traces the stretched edge with his thumb and Clint sighs through his nose, trembling. "Good boy," Phil mumbles again, and then he's coming, too sharp and sudden and profound to warn Clint, who just stutters a little in his rhythm, and then swallows it all and licks Phil clean. He lets his head fall back against the seat. "Fuck."

"I'm game if you are," Clint says, a little hoarse. Phil shudders and finds the cooler, passing him a bottle of water. He grins, rolling the cool bottle across his forehead before opening it. "Thanks."

"You're more than welcome." 

They take a moment together to just be quiet and get their clothing back in order. After Clint has his shirt on and has downed about half of the water, Phil kisses him again. "I like you a lot," he says, and Clint smiles.

"Good, because I don't really fuck around that much."

Phil smiles back, and holds him for a few minutes more before he has to go inside and check on Nick while Clint circles the block with the windows down to get the smell of sex out of the car, a wide, silly, and beautiful grin on his face.


End file.
